Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
by WeAreAllStoriesInTheEnd
Summary: After their vacation across Europe, Chuck and Sarah are back home were they belong--together. But even though there is a new peace in their lives, not all of the past can be completely forgotten. The reprocussions of the Other Guy. Chuck/Sarah. Post 3.14


**Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep**

An: I haven't written much in awhile, and I'm sorry. I'm just happy that I can post anything when I have the chance. So this is a one-shot. Chuck has been freaking sweet for the past few episodes and I cannot wait until the last of the back six are viewed. This takes place after Vs the Honeymooners and after tomorrow night's episode, Vs the Role Models. (Assuming that Sarah moves in.)

The title, "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" aka _Blade Runner_ by Phillip K. Dick has nothing to do with the story. I don't own it. I just thought it fit here and it was a nerd reference.

Ps. Minor Spoilers for Episode 16, Vs the Tooth. Nothing really important live or death; just a small plot point.

R&R and enjoy!

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Dreaming, it was the great chasm between real conscious thought and sleeping. At first he thought that somehow the Intersect was playing tricks with his mind (and maybe it was) because the flickers he saw and the sounds he heard seemed more like fragmented images, the distorted memories fluxing in and out of focus like it was one elongated flash. Unlike the functions of the super computer residing in his brain, these memories came and went like the wind; waking up resulted in forgetting whatever information he originally assembled in his dream-like state. That's why what he dubbed "night flashes" became a hindrance more than any ability the Intersect could grant him.

The weeks went on by seamlessly, the visions in which transpired in his subconscious gradually became clearer and more pronounced but no less confusing, and it felt like a new desperation for truth was clawing lesions into his brain. But if Chuck knew anything about the mind, it was that it was a fickle thing. He could be lucky and unlock certain (albeit random) pieces of the puzzle, and just when he was sure he had some indication of what it all meant, it slipped away like a receding tide. It came full circle, right back where it had originated from. Like it was at the tip of his tongue, the dreams' presence hovered frustratingly out of reach.

And then one night, finally home; back where he belonged, Chuck bolted upright in his sleep and rasped, "SARAH!"

His heart was fluttering madly in his chest, and he looked over heaving shoulders to find Sarah surprisingly fast asleep. Her beautiful figure curled up in the bedcovers with her head nestled into the comfort of a single pillow; errant strands of hair shone golden beneath the pale moonlight, swept around her face like a halo. Chuck pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to calm his breathing, ignoring the blatant ringing in his ear as well as the throbbing sensation in his head.

"Sarah…" he croaked, his throat aching hoarse from shouting. Her name still felt profound as it resonated under his breath, each letter holding its own distinct weight.

He knew. He didn't remember, because of the flash—or whatever it really was, but it was fleeting and left no trace of recognition in his brain. And yet…he still knew. Chuck didn't quite understand the significance of these illusions, of course things like this was never going to be easy to piece together. Simplicity was more of a luxury these days than not and how often had rationale lent him a helping hand in his life?

Chuck let out a long breath he wasn't aware he had even been holding. Head angled to the side, he chanced a look of longing at Sarah; he slid carefully out of bed onto shaky legs. The lights from outside of the apartment filtered in dimly through the glass pane and Chuck made his way over to the window. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass and lamented his grief by exhaling noisily.

The night was relatively quiet. Except for the slow trickle of the fountain out by the courtyard, everything had been drowned out into a distilled silence. Chuck closed his eyes, watching the faulty memories take form and play out before him. A deluge of thoughts and emotions and noise and everything else rushed into him, intensifying with each hitch of his breath. The only thing that kept his balance was the sheet of glass he leaned into.

And _oh god, _he brought a hand up to run his fingers through his hair and a depraved moan escaped between clenched teeth. It had been nearly a month, and only just now was his act of taking another's life, that finally began to unravel itself out of Chuck's mind.

_Please, it doesn't have to be like this. This isn't you Shaw. You can't do this. _

_No Chuck, I can. You can't._

The last exchange of words between mentor and protégé echoed throughout his head. Both of their voices were disembodied, just mere imprints of the past. But the conversation soon was replaced by a quick succession of gunshots; cracked like lightning in the dead calm of night. Remembering the blood stain the air in a red mist, Chuck felt instantly nauseous. _You can't, _was the last words spoken by the crazed CIA-turned- Ring spy.

But he _did _do it. Three shots perfectly clustered to the chest proved as much. He did it. He killed Daniel Shaw. He took a life. And he did this all on his own. Wasn't that just the understatement of the century?

"No choice," he murmured, trying somehow deep within to pull himself together.

_You saved me. _

"Chuck, what are you doing over there?" Sarah called to him from back at the bed. Her lips parted like she was to continue, but she only yawned. "It's late, come back to bed."

"Can't," said Chuck. He popped an eye open and sought out Sarah in the blinding darkness. He met her worried gaze with his own one of pure exhaustion. Her concern deepened as she observed the hollowness of his voice. "Can't sleep…"

Sarah sighed. She shrugged out from the covers and crawled to the edge of the bed. Barefoot and only clad in a pair of Chuck's boxers and a white shirt, she stepped across the length of the bedroom until she was standing beside him, staring deeply into his disturbed brown eyes. In their depths, nightmares swam freely; plaguing his mind with hallucinations of her covered in blood; her soaked to the bone after being drowned in the Seine; her blue eyes void of life as he could do nothing but watch as the torture would continue, him being unable to stop it.

She asked gently, "You can tell me what's wrong." Her finger traced along his cheekbone in a soft caress. And then: "I'll listen, I promise."

Chuck wished desperately to tell her exactly what was running rampant in his mind. But even he really did not know it himself. And if he was in the dark about his own livelihood, then how was he supposed to convey anything worth speaking to Sarah? If there were to be something wrong—whether the Intersect was being erratic, or that he might really be going crazy—Chuck doubted he would reveal his true condition to Sarah regardless. She didn't need to worry about him. He'd figure it out on his own. She did not need to know. It would _kill_ her.

It would _kill _him—figuratively and literally.

He wished for the vivid dreams to end. He wanted nothing more than to be able to sleep without being abused by past experiences. Or what could have been. Chuck shuddered at the mental image: Sarah dead; Shaw still alive. Himself, a grieving soul hell-bent on revenge; or of course he could be dead too. He did not want that. He was not Shaw. He never would be. He'd keep Sarah alive as long as he was still breathing. He'd die to make sure he wouldn't make the same mistake. And if that meant keeping her in the dark, to escape the threat on her life, then so be it.

He'd lose his mind before hurting Sarah again.

"Bad dream, again?" Sarah guessed, bringing him back into the present. She was staring at him expectant for a response. Chuck blinked the blurrs away and recovered with a shaky laugh of disbelief. Sarah raised a brow.

"What gave you the impression that I had a nightmare?" Sarah huffed but stayed quiet. She retreated a single step backwards and placed her hands on either hip, waiting patiently for him to crack. And because he was Chuck Bartowski and she was Sarah Walker, the rules were absolute. He would break under her, like he always did, and he'd spill his guts in one long bumbling spiel of lady feelings that would make Casey bleed at the ears.

Further confirming his assumptions, Chuck saw that she wouldn't budge. He felt the urge talk. That stupid compulsive urge he could no longer resist. Something had to give anyway. He gave her one last look of _Just-let-it-go-it's-not-that-big-of-a-deal-I-promise!_ Her stare was blank and unconvinced.

Chuck refused to make eye contact when he later revealed, "I'm scared, Sarah."

There was an unnatural grit to the confession, like sandpaper on brick, as if Chuck was literally forced against his will to say it. And in a way he was. He tried to keep his eyes open as they lifted up to meet Sarah's reaction, but when everything started to spin faster than the Graviton as a fair, he snapped them shut. He forced back the impending nausea caused by a never ending migraine; gravitated away from the window and plopped on the foot of the bed. Sarah watched his uncoordinated movements as he fell sluggishly into the mattress. Her heart panged in her chest when Chuck lay still, spread-eagle on his back.

"What are you scared of?"

There was plenty to be scared of in this world, not to mention in their line of business. Sarah couldn't begin to count the things that drove her into a bout of fear and anxiety. She could only imagine what was going through Chuck's head. He had seen a lot. Not as much as she, but it was damn close. Close enough to where his innocence had been shattered. Close enough to make her heart break.

"The nightmares…" he tried to convey, and his eyes nearly flew open. But he didn't really want to repeat the particular sensation and instead, volunteered to wait. A moment passed and he gushed out, "The things in my brain, they're driving me insane. I can't take it anymore."

"This is about Shaw," was her astute observation.

"Yes…and no," he wanted to shrug, but couldn't force himself to carry out the motion. He felt weak, too tired to move and too fragile to think coherently. "They were about him, but not anymore. Something's gone wrong."

"You did what you had to do. Chuck, don't feel guilty about this—"

"I know—I _had _to do it. I had to protect you—save you." And then, right then, Sarah could feel Chuck's pain, conviction and fear blending together to swell into a single emotion, underlying the deterioration of his waning psyche. It was the same suffocating presence she had felt herself, during that night in Paris; where she had been helpless as she witnessed an armed and revenge-driven Daniel Shaw baring down on Chuck. The gun was leveled, aimed to kill. It would've too, except for the fact that Chuck had, in a split second decision, been quicker to react. He got the shots off first, and in the end, saved her from a fifty foot drop into the Seine.

Shivers trailed up her spine at the memory. Sarah remembered how close she was to falling down, down, and down into the black. Never to see Chuck again; never to see the light of his soft brown eyes, or light in general. There would've been darkness, followed by numbness and then finally…nothing at all.

Chuck was resuming in the same agonizingly soft tone. "And I have no regrets for what I've done. If there was a chance to go back and redo that night…I wouldn't, I swear." His words fumbled into a rambling speech when drowsiness took hold of him. His hands were brought to his face, knuckles kneading his forehead. "I did what I did. I accepted it, I _know _I did! But my head, it won't let it go. It won't let _me _go. And every day, it gets harder to sleep, it gets harder to stay awake….I must be losing my mind."

"Chuck…how long have you been having these nightmares?"

"The night of Ellie's going away party," he recalled numbly. "I—I thought that when I wasn't freaking out after I…killed Shaw, that there was something wrong with me. Because I didn't feel anything and I got scared. But now, this is worse. I've never had dreams like these."

Chuck's head was swimming, and his stomach rolled, and _oh _he did not feel like getting sucked into yet another long intelligible rant. He nearly bit back the urge to quit. To say forget it to Sarah and call it a day—or night. They would figure it out tomorrow, or never. But, he knew Sarah would worry about his safety no matter what (even lose sleep over it), and underneath it all, Chuck couldn't deal with that fact. It was his own fault for making Sarah a nervous wreck.

Chuck swallowed, and tried to keep the shakiness out of his voice.

"Sarah, please tell me this is natural. Please say that everyone goes through this. I can't be alone on this; you must've been the same?"

"Killing someone takes time to recover from, if at all." Sarah began her tone contemplating and methodical. "Most either shake it off—people like Casey, but others, _we _needed help to get past it. You're not wired like most spies, Chuck. You're not made to kill. So you don't know how to cope."

"Right," Chuck's palm rested on his chest, feeling the pounding of his petrified heart. "It sounds like PTSD."

"It could be," agreed Sarah with a steady nod. She wrapped her arms around her chest like a cold wind breezed into the room. Her eyes were downcast to Chuck, still watching him prone on his backside. The rise and fall of his chest was beginning to fall into a soothing rhythm; at least he wasn't suffering as much anymore. "But that doesn't explain half of it."

Chuck lifted his head; tired eyes encircled by shadows peaked through his lids as he stared at her. He propped up his body with both elbows and he asked, "Half of what?"

"You said you weren't just dreaming about Shaw. Remember?"

He looked at her for a long time, thinking back to a few minutes before. Most of what he admitted felt like it had vanished from his conscious all together. His brain was a blank slate. His lips turned downward into a worried grimace. Why couldn't he remember?

"Yeah, sorry, forgot…" he mumbled. "I've been having these _other _dreams too…"

"What are they about?"

Chuck pushed up to a sitting position. He was still frowning, "Don't know. As soon as I wake up, they're gone."

Sarah nodded again. She took a seat at the foot of the bed, Chuck next to her, trying to decipher what was embodying her muse. She bit her lip and chewed, inhaled, and then said. "We need to go to Beckman about this."

Chuck's eyes widened and he was instantly sobered by her suggestion. He scooted to the edge of the mattress and shot her another incredulous look.

"Why would we do that?" He practically shouted. "After our unauthorized vacation in Paris, we're running on thin ice with the General. She's going to freak if we tell her that I might be crazy!"

Sarah rolled her eyes, "You're not crazy, Chuck. You've suffered from a traumatic experience and it's making you sick. You need help."

"By 'help,'" he made quotations with his fingers. "You mean spending government money on sending me to therapy, right? Because I'm not cool with that." He said indignantly. "I've had more than enough run-ins with shrinks."

"It could be good for you," Sarah tried. Her fingers played absently with the charm bracelet hanging from her wrist. "You'll be cured of PTSD and they can evaluate maybe why you're having these other dreams."

"I don't want to be psychoanalyzed by someone who doesn't understand anything about me," he demanded in a brooding tone.

Leaning forward, Sarah gave Chuck a quick peck on the cheek. She attempted a small smile, "I'll be with you every step of the way. So stop being so resistant, you're starting to sound like Casey."

Chuck winced. He snaked an arm around Sarah's waist and tugged her closer to him. "Once I start grunting and manhandling innocent bystanders, I think that'll be the tell-tale sign to have me committed," he joked.

This elicited a small chuckle from Sarah, and in turn, got Chuck to reciprocate the gesture as well. They stayed like this, in each other's arms for the warmth and comfort both of them provided. Sarah rested her chin in the crook of his shoulder, and Chuck combed his fingers through her hair. When all was quiet, and not even the water fountain outside could disturb their moment of serenity, Sarah felt the growing weight press onto her body.

"Chuck," she said. There was no response. She pulled back and repeated, "Chuck?"

Eyes firmly shut, and with a smile spread languidly across his face, Chuck had finally fallen asleep. Sarah felt relief wash over her. She took him gently by the small of his back and placed him carefully back on the bed. His head touched the pillow and he began to snore soundlessly. Sarah situated herself beside his sleeping form, sure not to wake him, with an arm draped over his chest, and her head buried in his neck.

When she began to slip in and out of consciousness, Sarah kept reminding herself about the seriousness of Chuck's condition. He had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or worse. The only way he could recover was to act. If not, everything she fought to protect—everything that made her fall in love with the man next to her would disappear. Chuck Bartowski was nothing without his heart and his mind.

Sarah promised that first thing in the morning, they were going to rectify this.

"I love you, Chuck." She whispered into his ear. He was already deep into sleep, but the liberation she felt for actually admitting her love for him made it all inconsequential. There would be a time and place for when she would be ready. It wasn't now. But she feared if Chuck grew worse…

She squeezed Chuck in a tighter and more protective embrace. She wouldn't let him go, not through all the nightmares (real or fake), not ever again. She'd keep holding on. It was because she had to.

It was because even as dawn claimed the sky, Sarah suspected that time was not on their side. It was running away from them almost effortlessly. Slipping through dreams and reality, it was all relative.

She only could hope that whatever time they had left together, that it would be enough.

Sarah closed her eyes. She fell asleep with her last thoughts being of Chuck. With wondering what the future would hold for them. Whether they would survive or fall—together.

Sarah slept peacefully for the remainder of the night.

She slept, and she dreamed.

Of him, and that was enough.

_Fin_

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An: I hope that was enjoyable. Again, haven't written ANYTHING but stupid AP essays. So i'll admit to being a little rusty. At any rate, R&R please!!!!


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